


Better Late Than Never

by Callali



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Future Fic, In the tamest of ways, Light-Hearted, Sansa tries to be freaky, Smut, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-20 23:20:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6029248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callali/pseuds/Callali
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa seduces her husband in the most unnecessary seduction of all time. Shameless fluff/smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Late Than Never

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote some pointless, probably unrealistic, shameless fluff/smut for Valentine’s Day, so throw a blood orange at me I don’t care. Then I got nervous and didn’t post it until Valentine’s Day had passed, so throw a blood orange at me I don’t care. Nothing belongs to me; all characters are GRRM's and I'm just pushing them together saying "now kith."

Sansa’s fingers trembled as she tied the silk ribbons at the top of her smallclothes. It had taken all the courage in the world to commission these two particular pieces from her seamstress. The woman had smiled wickedly and then giggled _,_ which was amusing as she was nearing sixty. The matching top and bottom were nothing more than the finest, sheerest lace held together with a few seams and ribbons. They left nothing whatsoever to the imagination.

Finishing the ties, she resisted the urge to peek into the mirror. She would only lose her nerve. She believed that she must have looked a fool: she was a mother of two, now, and this was an outfit for a well-paid whore, not for a lady such as herself. Not for a _little bird_ , either: she had never been anything approaching adventurous in their marriage bed. Each time he flipped her into a new position, her cheeks never failed to blush deeply. Prettily, as her lord husband said. Sometimes she worried that he would grow bored, but his appetites only seemed to increase with time. To Sansa’s delight, he loved her like a man half his age.

Out of curiosity, Sansa ran a knuckle across the thin lace covering one nipple, shivering at the new sensation. She was embarrassed when it rose to a peak, entirely and shamelessly visible beneath the thin fabric. Sansa was scandalized. Sandor would like it. He would like it very much.

It was an odd sensation to layer her regular clothes on top; the lace rubbed beneath her simple dress once she had it on. She would be distracted all through dinner. It was no matter: her husband would be distracted as well.

+

They dined it their solar, alone. Sansa could not possibly go through with her plan with their children and whoever else in attendance. It was not all that unusual: they took a private meal from time to time. Sandor should have no reason to suspect anything, but he would anyway. Sansa was still a terrible liar where he was concerned, and could never keep anything a secret from him for very long.

She had chosen a dress that she used to wear before she had the babes. It fit nearly everywhere except the chest, where it stretched across her breasts and dipped perhaps a bit too low. It made her nervous, reminding her of the dresses she used to wear in the Lannisters’ court, but it was all for a good cause. Her husband’s nameday had come and gone before Sansa had become brave enough to give him this gift. It was now or never.

Sandor had finished his dinner while Sansa was still picking at hers. He leaned back lazily in the chair, still working on his wine, regarding her calmly. He hardly ever drank anymore; he must have realized it was a special occasion _._ After all these years, his gaze still made her heart beat madly. His temper had dulled. The Hound was dead. And yet, there was something leftover, something dark and perhaps a bit predatory, which other men could simply never hope to possess. Sansa’s cheeks burned. She resisted the urge to squirm in her seat, spearing a dainty bite on her fork and bringing it to her lips slowly. It would not do to shake.

“Something troubling you, Sansa?” he rasped.

Sansa heard her heartbeat in her ears. She had surely been found out. “Not at all,” she lied, smiling. It was no use.

“It’s taking you half an hour to eat a spoonful of pease for no particular reason, then. The little bird pecks at her food.” His tone was even, dismissive. She would give herself away at some point. She always did.

“I had a heavy lunch,” she lied again, setting her fork down.

“No doubt,” he said. Sansa willed her hand to be still while she reached for her cup of water and took a sip. Her throat had gone dry. Then, she stood, dropped her napkin to the table, and left without a word. He would follow. He was as hopelessly predictable as his lady wife, though he would not admit it.

+

Sansa barely had time to compose herself before she heard the door open behind her. She did not turn to face him, for surely her courage would leave her. The dress she had worn laced in the back; it was not ideal, but she could manage to untie it by herself. Slipping it from her shoulders, she let it fall to the floor at her feet. Without hesitation, she hiked up her shift and slipped it over her head. _Now or never,_ she told herself. _On the count of three, I’ll—_

Before she could make herself turn around, she realized he was right behind her. His breath tickled her neck, making her shiver. She felt one of his knuckles lightly brushing across the lace that covered her bottom.

“What’s this?” he growled into her shoulder, sending a shiver down her spine. Sansa could not answer.

“I had it made for your nameday,” she whispered.

“My nameday was two weeks ago,” he said, gripping her hips and drawing her backward.

“Beg pardon,” she said. It was meant to be sardonic, but it came out breathless.

He was hard against her lower back, and her fears began to disappear. Why was she afraid in the first place? Of course he would like it.

One hand left her hip and slid up her side to cup her breast. His hands always felt so different from her own: they were rough where hers were smooth. Something snagged on the lace. Sansa moaned.

She was facing him, suddenly, so she rose up on her toes to kiss him, but his hands were on her shoulders pushing her down. His eyes were dark and roaming. He traced the neckline of the top of her smallclothes, and raked down her body before staring hard at the meeting of her thighs. It was all Sansa could do to stand still and not cover herself, but this was what she had wanted. This was what she wanted to give.

“Little bird,” he said. He may not have realized he said it. He was far away, lost in lust and other things he had no words for. Sometimes he looked at her like she wounded him, and perhaps she did.

One hand came to rest on her hip. With the other, he slowly brushed his fingertips down the laces of the bottom half. Sansa’s breath came fast. He cupped his hand and found her woman’s place. “ _Fuck,”_ he said, hoarsely. Despite being wet and willing for him more nights than not for the past few years, he always seemed surprised. On this particular night, Sansa had been ready for him since dinner. He could feel her through the lace, and she could feel him. It was too much.

“ _Please,”_ she said.

She heard him suck in air through his teeth at that. For some reason, he liked her courtesies in their marriage bed. He fumbled with the ribbons before making a sound of frustration and dropping his hands. “Take it off,” he said. “I don’t want to rip it.”

Sansa giggled, making quick work of the laces and beginning to carefully slip the pieces off. “I can wear it again, _if it please you,”_ she said.

“Gods, Sansa, wear it every night,” he said. She almost started to tell him that if she wore it every night then it would simply ruin the whole effect, but she was in the air and being carried to bed before her smallclothes hit the floor.

+

He dropped her onto the furs unceremoniously, then set to slinging off his boots and other garb. Was there a man Westeros who could get undressed as quickly as her husband? Doglike, he was nothing if not eager.

Some nights she needed him to go slowly, needed him to rock into her like the gentle sway of a tide, but this was not one. No sooner had he joined her was she wriggling under the covers and furs and pulling him atop her. She felt if he waited another second she would come without him.

He found her entrance and buried himself without further ado. Fully inside her, he groaned into her neck. Sansa loved what few sounds he made; his voice always hit something at the base of her spine that made her skin prickle. She wrapped her legs around his in the way they both enjoyed. He sunk his teeth into her shoulder, lightly; years ago, she had chastised him for leaving little nips and marks where others could see, and so he had been trained to keep his biting and sucking below her neckline. She would never admit that she enjoyed being _bitten,_ but she did. This was a practiced art, this lovemaking. She knew all the things that made him break apart in her arms and she used them frequently. He liked when she moved to meet him, when she tangled her fingers in his hair, when she did as he asked without question because he wouldn’t hurt her, only bring her pleasure. He loved his name on her lips, especially when she sang for him.

On this night, Sansa was close before he even began to move. She gasped when he slid into her, already feeling the telltale build of warmth in her center. By the time his hips were snapping against hers in a steady rhythm, she was already losing her movement and clinging to him as she shook apart. Fisting her hand in his hair, she met his eyes and willed him to come with her, this time. He let loose entirely at her permission, feverishly thrusting into her without any of his usual restraint. As the final waves crashed over her, he did as he was bid, and moaned brokenly above her as her body claimed his pleasure.

He was a heavy man; that much was certain. Nevertheless, Sansa relished those few blessed seconds when he was nothing but a solid weight with no sinew or will, when his breath came in short bursts and he mumbled into her hair unintelligibly. She delighted in what power she must have, to render him boneless and sated, to conquer him in the sweetest of ways. It might have been her most favorite part. Her fingers ghosted across his shoulder blades as she whispered all the pretty words he loved to hear, which he only took without objection when his guard was down.

+

Though she wanted nothing more than to sink into sleep, Sansa made herself get up and wash. She folded the smallclothes carefully and placed them in the basket of things to be laundered: her lord husband seemed adamant that they be kept for future use. It was high summer, but the air felt cool on her skin, so she slipped on a shift and climbed back into bed. After only a few moments of sport, they were both happy and exhausted and ready to drift off into sleep. Sansa wondered if they were getting old, or if they were just content.

Sandor would sleep well tonight. On nights such as this one, he seemed more at ease, and would not likely be jolting awake every hour as he sometimes did. In a way, Sansa considered it one of her wifely duties to tire him out. It was only polite. It had little to do with the fact that she enjoyed it immensely, of course.

She was a hair’s breadth away from sleep when she felt him stir and move over. He tossed one leaden arm across her middle, pulling her close. A small smile spread across her lips, for there were few things she loved more than the warm comfort of sharing a bed with her husband.

“Happy nameday, Sandor,” she mumbled. He chuckled lowly.

“Better late than never, little bird.”


End file.
